


It's The Nice Ones You Remember

by sahem62896



Category: Law & Order: SVU, Oz (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-13
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-04-26 05:23:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4991845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahem62896/pseuds/sahem62896
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a few words on how Chris Keller and Elliot Stabler ended up with the same tattoo.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's The Nice Ones You Remember

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea for a while, and I'm glad this is finally written. Curious to hear what you think. I own the rights to nothing... it's just for fun... yadda yadda yadda.
> 
> =-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
> 
>  
> 
> _"Trying to figure out the difference, but I think the lines are starting to get blurry..." —Eminem_  
> 

I don't ask a lot of questions about why people make the choices they do, man.  Mostly it's because I realize that in this town, it's usually the booze, the drugs, and the rush of having won at the craps table that's making choices for your sorry ass.  What happens in Vegas is supposed to fucking stay in Vegas, but if you stumble in to my shop blitzed out of your mind with some skank who's trying to get her hands on a piece of what you just won at Circus Circus (or in some cases to get her hands on what you're going to put down in hopes of winning) and ask me to do some work on you because you think you are hot shit at that moment, a little piece of your trip is going to come back on your skin.  Not my fault if it does, and not my job to explain to people who want to know what the hell you got that tattoo for.  That's all on you, pal.  As long as your money's good, I'll give you what you want and I'll do a good job.  Really, I will 'cause I'd rather you wonder how the hell that tattoo got there than wonder what the hell it is.  And I never ask someone if they're sure about their choice.  Believe me, nobody is more sure than some tweaker at three in the morning who thinks he or she is the ruler of the free world and has to get a tattoo to prove it.  And sadly, that's the kind of asshole my shop tends to attract.  They are a dime a dozen and they leave no lasting impression. 

It's the nice ones that you remember.

Take this guy who came in two or three weeks ago.  Clean cut fellow who just looked like he had gotten out of the military or maybe was still in it.  Could have been a cop too, but way too relaxed to be part of the local fuzz.  I didn't know, but he had that air of discipline about him.  Had a nice-looking lady on his arms too.  She looked a little frazzled, the way a lot of military wives and cop wives look, but she was still polite and friendly.  Kinda funny to see her there though.  Mine is the kind of place where the wife tends to show up afterwards demanding to know what the hell I was thinking when I tattooed her man as if I'd held a gun to the guy's head and forced him to let me use him as an easel. 

Anyway, the guy pointed at something on the wall and said it was exactly what he wanted on his bicep.  Funny thing is, what he pointed at was not really a sample of my work.  I've got this artist friend who loves to paint these pictures of the crucifixion that are actually kinda cool.  There's no cross, the figure of Jesus is done in these jagged blocks of unshaded black, and they often appear against backgrounds that are often very jarring to the eye... shit like newsprint pictures of car accidents and killings or pages out of the phone book with ads for rehab clinics on them. The one he sent me is on some random page from a Spanish newspaper that has no picture, but there's a splatter of red paint in the corner that is just suggestive enough to make the hair on your arms stand up.  I'd never intended to make a tattoo of it; I just thought it was a cool picture.  But he loved it.  She of the pretty-yet-strained face liked it too, but begged him not to get the splatter of blood.  He was okay with that, and she was okay with the price I quoted.  So I took the picture off the wall and set it beside me so that I could refer to it while I'm working on his bicep.  I never asked why he picked it out, but as I started on the outline I heard him mention that he's delighted at the thought of it shocking his old man and hers too, both of whom are very devout Catholics.  She responded with a nervous laugh.  I noticed the crucifix around her neck and realized she was one too, but was willing to be a bit rebellious.  This guy — turned out his name was Elliot — wasn't so devout but has had to play devout to appease the in-laws.  Apparently, her dad never invested a lot of hope in their marriage.  Even so, he turned out to be a pretty decent fellow.  He'd just gotten discharged from the Marines a while back and finished his training at the police academy in New York City.  The two of them had a little girl back home who was staying with her parents while they enjoyed their first honeymoon after three years of wedded bliss (during which he spent most of his time in Iraq playing that stupid fucking sandbox game called 'Operation Desert Storm').  They were normal folks talking about doing normal touristy things like a show at Caesar's after a few quick games of blackjack.  They clearly didn't have a lot of money to throw around, but they were allowing themselves a good time.  Nice people.  Memorable for no other reason than that.  

Three nights later, the guy is back... at least I could have sworn it was him at the time.   He wasn't so clean cut and disciplined anymore.  A good stubble had sprouted on his face since our last visit and the short, neatly combed hair was now messy and clotted with dried hair gel.  The previous night he was little sticky from the heat of the desert, but this time he was drenched and I could smell the booze coming out of his pores.  He was also out there like fucking Pluto.  No idea what rocket he was riding, but his eyes were so dilated that I could see the inside of the back of his fucking skull.  He also had that shit-eating grin of invincibility that only someone as stoned as he was can wear.  The woman on his arms was not the sweet, nervous young lady he brought in before, but instead looked like Jabba the Hut in a fucking sundress.  She was stumbling and giggling beside him, also clearly tuned up on whatever it is that he had snorted or swallowed before walking in here.

He caught my stare and his features darkened.  "The fuck you looking at?" 

It was like a slap in the face and I was brought back to my senses.  "Sorry Elliot," I said.  "I just didn't recognize you for a moment, man."

"Elliot?" he asked.  The corners of his mouth turned up a bit.  Hers too.  She turned and looked at him with her eyebrows raised.  I got it then; he was pretending to be someone else for the blob who was glomming herself all over him.  No idea why, and not my business.  Still, I never would have pegged him for the type.   I know that Vegas can change people when they get here, but this was the fastest fucking transformation I'd ever seen in all my years on The Strip.  I began to suspect that something pretty terrible must have happened since the last time I saw him.  Maybe they lost everything and then some at that quick game of blackjack they were going to have before their show at Caesar's.  Maybe he found out that the missus was fucking some other guy the whole time he was fighting Bush's war and decided to kick both her ass and his dignity to the curb. Maybe it was something worse.

"Sorry," I said, backpedaling a bit, "you kinda look like him."  And really he did, even as trashed as he was.  Like I said... it's the nice ones that stick in your mind, and this guy would have been utterly forgettable under other circumstances.  He brushed me off with a nod, but I could have sworn that real confusion had settled on his features. 

Fatso let go of his arms and wandered over to the wall where the samples are posted.  He trailed behind her and stopped about halfway along the wall, making rude comments that I'm sure he thought only she could hear.  He looked up, and I'll be damned if he wasn't looking wide-eyed and awe-filled at the same picture of the crucifixion that I had tattooed on his arm a few days earlier.  That's how wrecked he was.  Didn't even remember getting it the first time.  Probably couldn't even feel it healing under his shirt.  He snagged the elephant who had moved a few steps ahead of him and dragged her to his spot.

"That's the one I'm getting," Elliot told her, taking the picture of the wall himself.  Ordinarily, I would have told a customer to keep his fucking hands off the stuff on my walls, but I guess I was still in too much shock to believe what he was doing.  He dropped it on the counter and pointed at it.  "Can ya do that?" he said, swaying on his feet.  The woman was looking at it as if it were a slice of pie a la mode.

I grinned, trying to play it cool.  "Yeah," I said.  "You want it on the other arm this time?"

This time, Elliot actually recoiled.  "Man, what the fuck are you talking about?  I don't even have it now.  Now can you do this or not?"

_Fucking sad_ , I thought as I looked at him, but I nodded.  "Yeah, I can do it."

Next thing I knew, Elliot was pulling off his shirt and strutting over to the nearest chair.    His back was glistening with sweat, and I grimaced at the sight of it.  He was going to slip right out of the chair.  "Great!  Then get to work."

"You didn't have to take your shirt off..." I began, recalling how he had just rolled up his sleeve and tucked it under his armpit the previous time.

"Oh yes he did," said the fat woman.  She was now looking at him like he was dessert.  Maybe he was to her.

After taking a quick breath to regroup, I grabbed a pair of latex gloves, selected a few bottles of ink, then grabbed a towel and a few alcohol preps.  It's tough to do a tattoo on a sweaty mess of a human being and I wanted the area to at least be dry and somewhat clean.  I turned back to him and saw the two of them necking.  Fucking gross!  I was just about to tell her to get her fat ass into a different chair when I noticed that his bicep was bare where the tattoo had been before.

I don't know how long I was standing there, but when they finally broke the kiss they started to laugh in my direction.  "Enjoying the show?" he asked.

I snapped back into reality again and began to wonder if I'm the one who got slipped something.  I sat down and started to clean off his arm a bit.  The Goodyear Blimp kissed the end of her fingertip and touched Elliot's nose once before drifting into another part of the shop.  That's when I leaned over him, ostensibly to get something on the other side of his body,  and took a look at the other arm.  It was blank too.  

_This isn't Elliot_ , I told myself.

I meant to ask him if he had a brother or something, but instead out of my mouth came the words I never ask anyone:  "So, why'd you pick this?"

A wolfish grin surfaced on his face as he leaned in closer.  "Because I'm fucking God!" he whispered, after which he said no more. 

Neither did I.  I didn't want to know anymore after that.


End file.
